


Groove Uncanny

by Shusu (Sameshima_Shuzumi)



Category: Sneakers (1992)
Genre: Canon Disabled Character, Computer Programming, Eventual Romance, M/M, Marvel Cameos, Surveillance, Wordcount: 5.000-10.000
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-12-21
Updated: 2008-12-21
Packaged: 2018-01-25 03:15:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,525
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1628636
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sameshima_Shuzumi/pseuds/Shusu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Do you hear what I hear?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Groove Uncanny

**Author's Note:**

> Heartfelt thanks to Kristin, Mojave Dragonfly, mjules, mikeneko, Justine, hhertzof for various stages of beta-reading, hand-holding and brain-storming. You all rock! Any missteps are my own. Please see journal for commentary.  
> Written for Ponderosa
> 
> _Greetings from 2014 (thanks to Yuletide). My apologies for radio silence around this– I had planned a revamp of the ending and an exhaustive appendix. Though odds are about nil for those plans, I wanted to release *this* story into the wild simply for the bragging rights of having written it in **2008**. I can neither confirm nor deny that the headlines from which I ripped included those from the FUTURE. Now back to my bunker. - Shusu _

 

 

`>This is a work of fiction. Any trademarked terms and factual information contained in this document are purely for entertainment purposes. The author and hosts of this work are not liable for any unsanctioned use of said facts, which may result in serious repercussions.`

`>/sound Crash Cymbal.wav `

`> `

Martin Bishop was speeding through Oakland before he realized the map was sitting in his office back in Mountain View. No time for it. He jabbed at the GPS with a ballpoint pen. "Get me to 80. No, Sacramento. Avoid traffic." He took his eyes off the road for a second to check the screen. His knee was throbbing from banging into the foosball table in the commons. "Shit! Sa-cra-men-to."

 _Sound of the railroad tracks._ That meant I-80. _Mother mentioned Humboldt Lake ahead, so that's too far._ That was Nevada. What were they doing in Nevada? Martin considered the airport exit, then let it pass. Better to drive the whole way than risk missing the Winnebago on the side of a mountain road.

Martin stabbed at the GPS again. Six hours, give or take. Whistler's voice mail hadn't sounded particularly worried. He just figured something was up, what with Mother ditching the cell phone and screwing with the comm software. And then bailing out in the back-end of nowhere. Martin was going to get to the bottom of that-- right after he cut off Mother's supplier of organic popcorn. It was the next best threat he could think of; Mother already thought his blood type had been sold to the Chinese.

Who would leave a blind man in the middle of a desert? "Mother on a mission," Martin answered his own question. Okay, Whistler could take care of himself, even if he couldn't drive out. They had the dog, too. So why the hell had Mother dropped off the grid?

His knee was throbbing. Once he'd escaped the worst of the rush-hour tangle, he called Carl. The kid was geocaching with Mary. So: in-range but ignoring messages. They'd probably be back by evening. He ruled out Andreas and Hasna, since they'd never worked with Mother back in the day. Sharp kids, good at their game, but they weren't likely to stick their necks out for Mother if it came to it.

Martin heaved a sigh. It might come to it. He hovered over Crease's number, then decided against it. The guy had finally taken a day off to visit his daughter, and there wasn't much he could do from Massachusetts anyway.

"Play voice mail," Martin said to his car.

"Hey, Bish," came Whistler's voice. He'd been chewing on a pencil. "Got a little problem."

Martin floored it.

`> `

There were no Winnebagos stuck in the mountains.

The GPS got switched off after nearly miring him in Reno traffic. A few miles out of town, Carl texted back to tell him to buy gallon jugs of water. At least that's what Martin thought he said. The voice-reader software couldn't quite parse chatspeak.

The sky unrolled into the desert. The water came in handy when he overshot Humboldt Lake, backtracked twice along US 95, and got turned around down some godforsaken dirt roads. Out here were dozens of unpaved wonders not on any map. Off the goddamn grid, all right. Martin shook the sweat off his shirt and hoped he'd find them before dark.

At last the Winnebago rose up like a mirage. From a quarter-mile away, Martin could make out the flat profile of roof: the satellite dishes were missing. No internet connection.

He ate dust getting out of the car, fumbling with his keys as he checked around for tracks. No signs of struggle. Mother had taken the bike with the side-car and taken off to the northeast. He hadn't made off with the solar cells, though, which meant the Winnebago still had power.

Martin was four steps away when he heard the gunshot.

He ducked, stumbled forward, then ran back to the car for his revolver. Shit, Crease was gonna rip him a new one, especially if--

"It's unlocked!" came the muffled voice from inside the trailer.

"...Whistler?" The door creaked open, blasting cool air that quickly turned to faint steam. Martin found himself taking aim at the dog. "Mutt," he grumbled, rolling his eyes and lowering the gun.

There was a lack of potato chips on the floor, but otherwise the cabin looked unchanged from his last visit. He found Whistler in the back of the cabin, hunched over a joystick and ringed by eight mini-speakers. Whistler looked up, blank gaze following Martin's footfalls. A smile tugged on his lips. "You gonna have that coronary, Bish?"

The nameless dog sneezed at Martin's feet. "Nah, I'm having a great time. How'd you know it was me?"

"They can smell you in Mexico." Whistler pointed at a beeper hooked up to the outside motion detectors. "And the dog didn't try to gum you to death." He offered his fist.

Martin returned the knuckle-bump. Whistler's skin was fine-tuned smooth, while his own sandpaper fingers dragged. "Ha ha. What's all this?" He checked the back bedroom before stowing the gun, ignoring Whistler's raised brows.

"Sorry 'bout that. Wanted to get a few rounds in while I waited. We're beta-testing sniper mode."

Martin wiped his brow, blew out his breath. Now there was a good sound system. "Ninjas have rifles?"

"We're changing the FX in the final version. You oughta try it out. Better than _Doom_."

"I'll pass." He squinted at Whistler, who was methodically switching off his systems. "You sure you're okay?"

Whistler shrugged. "There's a week's worth of water in the tank. Lots more food. I was pretty sure I could hold out till the can opener died." He swung around to his workstation. "In the meantime, I also figured out why he wanted off the network."

Martin pulled a double-take. "He didn't _tell_ you?"

"Bugs," smirked Whistler. Every few months, Mother would remember that he was living in a government-issued motor home. "I did sweep for them, for old time's sake." He paused. "Not to mention the fact that he was hopped up enough to bust the cell phone charger."

Martin leaned over Whistler's shoulder and fished through his hip pack. Whistler patted at his cheek, tolerant of the intrusion. "I've got a charger. Talk to me, what d'you suppose Mother's up to now?" Retrieving the cell phone, he started hooking it up to his own adapter.

Whistler flipped out his tactile tablet. A few commands, and the membrane shifted into a topographical map. Whistler felt around and grabbed Martin's hand, orienting him around the landscape. "Check this out. Here's where we came in. Got it?"

"Yeah. Yeah, got it."

Whistler played with his hand till he got Martin's fingertips. "Now here's where we are. Here--" he tapped a command, and the tablet rippled, "--outside any WiFi coverage. Outside radar range of the naval station; not connected to the interstate highway networks, air traffic radar, not even the railroad switches. Trunklines, cable, power grid: nada. Nothing but radio waves."

"Which doesn't help since he ditched his ham radio last year." Right after the FCC dropped the Morse code requirements for licensing. Mother had been livid.

"Yeah, could've 10-20'd some truckers otherwise."

"It's a blind spot. And he went through a lot of trouble to park us in it."

Whistler chuckled. "Yup. Mother's target is pretty obvious. The only landmark within round-trip distance is a single cellular tower. Feel that?" He guided Martin's hand to the other side of Lake Humboldt, near the interstate.

"The tower's obsolete," realized Martin. He shook off Whistler's grip for a moment, feeling around the simulated terrain. "Its range doesn't overlap with any active tower like it's supposed to. If it's still working, and they haven't demolished it--"

"Somebody's using it for technical trials," Whistler finished.

That meant proprietary secrets. High security. Martin said, "If we activated a cell phone or tapped a satellite, would we really get pegged out here?"

"If you say so," Whistler said with a dirty smirk. He patted Martin's hand. "Mother's never gone this far with the counter-measures. Not even during the Great Cattle Mutilation Hunt. And those ranchers had shotguns."

"Why? Why risk a one-man job?" At least Martin hoped it was a one-man job. They didn't have means for any extraction beyond level one. Maybe level two if Carl showed up.

"The holy grail of conspiracy theories," Whistler said wryly. "Before we left San Francisco, he was talking to some guys who claimed to know about a secret plan to track everyone in the country anywhere, at any given moment."

Martin groaned. "Let me guess. Through their cell phones."

`> `

They decided to fix one of the dishes to get back online. After slipping around on the roof, Martin deposited the spoils on Whistler's bench and returned outside to hook up the convertible to the back hitch. The car was in no shape to go off-roading anyway. Mother probably only needed them to run silent while he was en route to his target-- better to add Carl to the loop than lose anyone else in the desert. At least, Martin hoped so.

In half an hour, Carl's words were echoing through the cabin. "You don't think the fame's gone to his head, do you?" It was a fair imitation of Carl, thanks to Whistler's little touches at the sound mixer-- albeit sounding flat and creepy. Carl was texting; Whistler's reader software had no trouble with chatspeak. 

"I thought his groupies ditched him after he claimed Kos was an alien," said Whistler, tapping a pencil on the table.

"A decade ago he'd never have gone out into the desert on a one-man mission," said Martin. _Without asking Whistler to back him up_ , he didn't say. "I'm giving him till dark."

Carl said, "He'll be fine, Bishop. Those zombie survivalists don't mess around."

"Mash up law enforcement types with the back-to-land guys and greenie college students, and you've got a potent force to go up against the zombocalypse," said Whistler.

"Word," said Carl. "Seriously, if you guys don't pick him up, there's a regular truck route running south. Someone would've spotted the Winnebago sooner or later. Boom, search parties for the Mothership."

Martin crossed his arms. "You knew about the trucks, didn't you," he muttered. Whistler just smiled. He pitched his voice for the receiver. "Carl, just because Mother can actually take care of himself doesn't mean we shouldn't be worried."

"Could always call the National Guard," Carl replied.

Everyone--including the reader program--laughed out loud. "We'd never hear the end of it," Whistler said.

"I'm sure tempted," said Martin. "Is there anything behind this cell phone conspiracy?"

"Cell phones have been required to transmit their location and phone number to 911 emergency boards since 2005," Whistler rattled off. "Same legal restrictions as wire taps."

Martin paced, twice stepping over the dog. "But the data exists." Codes could be broken. People could be compromised.

"I might've heard about this," said Carl. "Be right back."

"Bish," said Whistler, "there's locating one cell phone, and then there's storing the data snapshot of millions of phones. If Mother's on to something, you think that's government work?"

Before Martin could answer, Carl was back on. He texted a URL.

Whistler pulled up the page on the Braille interface and read. "World's largest manufacturer of mobile phones announced last week that they would be introducing a service linking the GPS of their new cell phones to help map congestion for their new traffic information serv--"

A beeper went off on the security monitors. It was the outside proximity alarm. Quickly Martin muted Carl's feed, shushing Whistler with a shoulder pat.

Martin hardly had a chance to reach for his gun when the door slammed open. It was Mother. There was sand in his hair, a sunburn in the shape of goggles on his face, and in his hands was a little black box.

He caught sight of Martin and flailed for a second. "Drive!"

"What?" Martin stared at the box.

"Drive!" With one hand on the dog trying to lick his pant-leg, Mother slammed the door with his foot.

"Oh! Carl, we'll meet you at... Silver Springs, Carl, you read that?" Martin said into the mic, a half-second before remembering it was off. Whistler waved him away and took over texting Carl. With a thump, Mother sat on the floor and yanked at his boots.

As Martin took the wheel, Mother caught sight of the active monitor. "Hah! Traffic information, my left flipper. Fellas, these guys aren't counting cars on your average American's six a.m. commute. They're matching phone numbers and names to the locations."

Whistler's voice was strangled but Martin heard him. "Real-time?"

"Real-time. And I've got proof."

`> `

Mother was closing the blackout shades over the view of the reservoir. "I'm going to ask the obvious question," he said. "Did you use your cell phone? To get to the Winnebago, I mean?"

Martin scrubbed at his face. "You left Whistler here by himself."

"He's okay. He was okay, right? You were fine, right, Whistler?"

Without waiting for a response, Martin stood up and blocked Mother's view. "If the job was dangerous enough to run silent, you should have taken back-up."

"Oh, did you want me to ask you, Mr. Sell-out?"

Great. That tired old yarn. Just because he drew a salary didn't mean the work wasn't the same. If anything, the threats came to them, no stake-outs required. Besides, Martin wasn't the only one who'd moved on. "I've helped you find corporate contacts before."

Mother pushed past him. "This is different. The company doesn't even know they're being played. This is a sub-sub-contractor of your uncle's buddy's aunt. Did you know the U.S. military and NASA routinely purchase sensitive technical parts via independent buyers on eBay? No one's paying attention to these guys."

"Mother, that's not the point," Martin said. "Why the secrecy? We're your friends. We could've helped out."

A can of dog food hit the kitchen counter. Mother ran it through the electric opener. "These guys are in cahoots with the data brokers, Bishop! They're selling identities _and_ tracking locations. Boy, my ex-wives would be all over that. You should've known I couldn't contact you directly, seeing as how your company's funded by them."

"Last time you said the Chinese communist party was funding us!"

"No," said Mother slowly, as though explaining it to the dog, "I said it was post-unification Hong Kong. Weren't you listening to me? They're behind the product recalls. Trying to strike back at the mainland. But that's neither here nor there."

Whistler grabbed Martin's elbow before he could advance on Mother. Martin glanced at Whistler, and again, and made himself steady his breathing. "You opening the box?" he said to Mother.

"I was going to wait for Carl, so you guys can pick it over. Since you don't seem to think I'm on the level," Mother said testily.

Martin sighed. "It's not that. Mother, you were out there for a while. We were going to call the National Guard."

"Oh." Mother stopped short. "Well, that was real sweet of you guys. Of course, they'd have shipped me to Gitmo for reprogramming, but I appreciate the sentiment." 

Whistler held out his hands, fingers hungry. "Let's have it, Mother," he said, and they started setting up the diagnostics.

Martin took out his phone and flipped through the address book. "I'm calling Crease."

"Then we're definitely waiting for Carl," said Mother. "I'm not talking to Crease on anything less than a secure line."

Whistler turned his head, then got up and unbolted the door. "Speak of the devil."

"Did I hear my name?" Carl bounded up. He was working on yet another variation of facial hair, though his grooming was also showing signs of a fastidious girlfriend. He could almost pass for a yuppie. Martin knew better. "Whistler, my man. Hey Mother, Bishop."

Mother checked out the window. "Whoa, whoa, whoa. Rental car?"

"I left the GPS chip in Reno," said Carl dutifully, petting the dog. "This the Christmas present, Whistler?" He leaned over the black box.

"Just sliding on the condom, then we'll see what this baby can do." Whistler turned his head, still smirking. "You wanna see this, Bish?"

"Yeah." Truth be told, Martin couldn't think of another place to set up. The business favored the small operation. These days, black hats who still needed brick-and-mortar were either still in school or belonged to three-letter agencies.

With his mouth full of pizza snacks, Mother said something that translated to _Those are the log-files from the last hundred outgoing captures._ He washed it down with a caffeine drink, going through all the details for Whistler. "...It's redundant, so they won't miss it."

Martin peered over Carl's shoulder. "You scale the tower for this, Mother?"

"No! That was the weird part. I could triangulate the signal, but I couldn't zero in for the longest time. Turned out it wasn't on the tower." Mother wiped his mouth with his sleeve, then finished off with a paper towel. "It was hidden in one of those armored tanks sitting out in the desert. Now if that isn't suspicious, I don't know what is." 

Whistler paused. Martin and Carl exchanged looks.

"Carl, see if you can get Crease on a secure line. Use whatever flagged terms you know, just get him. I've got latest security updates, if you wanna modify the firewall." Martin tossed his phone to Carl, who popped out the secondary memory-card. "Mother, you have any virtual networks to shut down?"

"Nope." Mother rubbed his hands together. "You ready, Whistler?"

They popped it open. Lines of code lit up the mish-mash of monitors; the dog looked up and barked.

"Agent Donald Crease, please--" Martin was saying.

"Now that's something," said Whistler, his fingers dancing over the interface.

"You see it?" Mother stood up, knocking his chair over.

"Holy shit," said Carl. "That was from a real, working cellular tower?"

"I checked," said Mother.

Martin licked his lips, hand coming down to rest on Whistler's shoulder. "Yeah, Don. Are you on a secure line?"

`> `

Crease wasn't having it. 

"Are you telling me you just committed grand theft, leaped into industrial espionage, and called me up at work because there's supposedly a cell-phone tower in western Nevada stealing people's phone numbers?!"

Martin remembered he didn't have Crease on speaker; they could all hear him _just_ fine.

Mother grabbed at the phone. "Crease, it's picking up on all cell phones, universally! Stateside companies are kind of touchy about their network only talking to their own phones."

"There's even a--" started Carl.

"There's even a parameter for the company and carrier," said Martin. "I wouldn't have believed it if I weren't looking at it right now."

"Fine," said Crease. "Can you isolate the program that's decrypting the signals?"

Whistler hadn't stopped frowning. With one hand he pulled up a screen, and with the other he steered Martin toward it by the small of his back. Martin took the hint, saying, "That's the thing, Crease. The hardware isn't here. The packets are being intercepted elsewhere in the system. All we've got is the _unencrypted data_ being matched with GPS locations. It's being unpacked upstream." 

The leak could be anywhere. It could even be a backdoor from years ago, when they were building the first towers and programming the base software. If that was the case, it had to be a backdoor that no one had known, in an area of code that was common to all the networks. A known hole like that would be a hot commodity in the hacker chatrooms, and would have been a priority for repair, like blood clotting over a cut.

"What about identification signals?" 

"Well... no," admitted Martin. Nothing in the data could be used to 'clone' cell phones or steal accounts. "Just the phone numbers."

Crease sounded indignant. "Martin! I cannot believe you of all people are falling for this, this fairy tale. All it does is map a concentration of cell phones--"

"Doesn't matter if they're on," muttered Carl.

"--outside of major arteries that aren't covered by traffic cameras. I'm sure the phone numbers are just there to identify individual packets from moment to moment. More cell phones, more cars: more traffic. That's all! Didn't you say that it's a prototype?"

Oh boy. "Don, if that's the case, this is a prototype for stalking individuals for reasons not related to law and order. It's outright identity theft, except on a larger scale. Federal crime, last I checked."

"Stealing whose identities? How many numbers are you talking about?"

"Well it's mostly truckers and railroad workers in the vicinity--" Mother began.

"So maybe a dozen numbers? How many?" Crease's voice dripped with incredulity.

"Oh come on, Crease!" Mother did grab the phone this time. "I can't be wrong all the time! I was right about Gulf War Syndrome!"

Martin wondered if he was getting delayed heat stroke. The headache felt like it. He got the phone back. "Can you at least confirm the company's name? I promise we won't break any laws."

Mother snapped his fingers. "We're just concerned citizens, that's right," he said, in as helpful a tone as he could muster.

"There's the naval station," Carl said suddenly. "What if it's part of an attack on the airstrip?"

Crease didn't respond to that.

" _We just need a name_ ," said Martin.

There was a long pause. Just the hum of the air conditioning and the dog whining by his water bowl. 

"All right," said Crease. "I'd ask you what you're getting out of this, but I think I've got some grey hairs that can answer that question." There was the shuffle of papers in the background, and some whispering. "Here it is. Dupre Dynamics. Based in Las Vegas."

"Thanks, Don," said Martin, relieved. On a hunch he switched to speaker.

Sure enough, Crease said in a quieter tone, "Don't thank me. Just be careful."

`> `

The only sound in the cabin was the staccato tap of Whistler's pencil on a Roswell, New Mexico coffee mug. 

Mother was driving. Riding shotgun and seat-belted was a box of their dismantled cell phones. Martin flattened his palm against the window, desert dusk speeding away in silence under his fingertips. When locked up, the cabin was remarkably sound-proofed.

Carl had returned his rental, and was now at a workstation pulling up information on Dupre Dynamics. He looked over at Martin sitting at the wet bar; his brows were dimpled, uncertain as he broke the silence. "I can't believe Crease isn't backing us."

It could've meant any number of things. The important part was that Don had given them a name. He wouldn't bother trying to misdirect them if they were on a dangerous path; he'd just flat out tell them to get lost.

Martin said, "He's been busy these last few years, since he went back. We all have."

Carl's fingers hammered through the keys. "I was surprised you took the job, Bishop." His eyes flicked up, automatically closing up his code. Cracking a password, then. "Surprised you kept the name."

Unaccountably, Martin's gaze fell on Whistler. "New challenges. There's something to be said for social networking. Not just information... people, too."

Whistler snorted. "That, and it got old when the answer to 'is the network secure?' is 'my employees write their passwords on their monitors.'"

Carl gave a short, bitter laugh. They all knew the dependence on GUIs had hampered Whistler's work. Not that a reliance on graphics was going to stop a programmer of Whistler's caliber. It was the community that had dried up-- priced out of universal access, unemployable in most workplaces. Lots of his friends in the circuit had moved on to other things.

"The name," continued Bishop. "My old one got loaded into a watch-list and never came out."

Mother called back, "We're all on somebody's watch-list!"

"I know. I just want to be on the right one." Martin spun around to check Carl's work. "Do you fellas want to keep going?"

Whistler tapped a beat on the Mother's black box. "Even if we got our hands on it, we don't even have a contact who'd take the goods," he muttered.

Martin asked, "You out, Whistler?"

The pencil skipped a beat. "Nah. I'm in. I wanna see how they're doing it."

"They could be roving bugs!" yelled Mother.

"Thought that was a myth," Carl said. "You can't remotely tell a cell phone to start recording."

Martin paused. "Actually, you can. FBI's using it for mafia cases where regular wire-taps would be discovered." He glanced at Carl. "You think Mary could...?"

"She could try. But she won't get anywhere. They lowered her security clearance." Because of me, Carl didn't have to say.

"And we're gonna need more backing than that." 

Carl lifted a shoulder. "I'm in. I wanna see the codes, too. How they got to the cell tower."

Mother clicked on the intercom. With one hand, Whistler flicked the toggle for 'public-address' mode.

"Bishop," came Mother's tinny voice, "What's in it for you? Over."

Martin sat up. "Hey, I'm on my vacation time." Granted, he'd probably get docked a few points for taking off without filing a form, but he was senior enough that HR wouldn't mind. It was the typical Valley thing to do. "And I agree with you, anyway. Data brokers are bad news. For everybody."

Mother grimaced. "Says you, who works for the company running the biggest ad revenue network on the internet. Of course, all you sell is viewing habits... short hop to working up full identities. First name, last name, birthday, Social, address, phone numbers, e-mails, passwords, mother's maiden name, pet's name, hometown. Over."

It was hard to be angry at Mother for needling him again. He'd seen less scrupulous companies do just that: sell to the highest bidder. "The complete ones, they call them gold profiles," Martin said. "Fetch top dollar in identity theft chatrooms. Then there are the large-scale fences based out of Eastern Europe and Russia. Believe me, Mother, even if I weren't interested in this, my company would be. Especially if they've moved into tracking people's whereabouts."

"Please," scoffed Carl. "You can get that far with satellite imagery. Any Ma and Pa at the corner store can swipe your credit card number, log on, and look you up from geosynchronous orbit. Same information, practically free."

"So who says this isn't the government doing a no-budget national I.D.? Over."

Martin stood up. The motion of the vehicle made him sway. "It can't be that. This isn't government. Any government. They would have set up inside the naval station, or miles away from it."

"It's a company, then," said Mother's voice. "Selling information that should be free."

Martin skipped past the ideology. "Buyers for that information would be the dangerous kind. These days you don't need to know where someone is to defraud them."

"I didn't say 'over'--"

" _Guys_."

The pencil-tapping had stopped.

Martin asked what he'd wanted to ask for the last ten minutes. "What's wrong, Whistler?"

"What day is it?"

For a dizzying moment, Martin thought there was something wrong with Whistler. He bit his lip. "Friday. Late."

"Whoever answered the phone back there wasn't Crease." Whistler turned toward the sound of Martin's voice. 

"--eyes on the road, Mother!" Carl said, somewhere, and there must have been screeching brakes because next thing Martin knew, the world was tilting, and he was bracing Whistler's chair. Bracing himself.

"He said we called him at work," Martin said hoarsely. He wasn't sure Carl could hear him, but Whistler could. " _He's in Boston visiting his daughter._ "

`> `

Martin hoped to hell Whistler had really swept for bugs, because they were talking this one out. 

"Carl, rip up that box and find the maker's marks, serial numbers, anything that'll link directly to Dupre Dynamics."

"If that's even a real--"

"I'm turning on the jammers, but that means dropping 10 m.p.h.--"

"Bishop, the site is bogus. It's all a front. That means I might've set off alarms--"

"Take apart everything with a GPS, Mother. Dump your pockets--"

"How did they even _do_ this?" That was Carl, hands shaking as he followed Whistler's directions.

Whistler sounded deceptively mellow. "They didn't have to crack the CIA, Carl. Question's not how they hijacked our signal. Question's how they stole Crease's voice."

Martin stopped in the middle of reviewing their logs. "He really sounded like Crease?"

Very deliberately, Whistler stuck his index finger out till he touched Martin's chest. "I couldn't tell the difference."

"Tell me-- tell us more."

"Sounded exactly like what it was supposed to be. Switch to secure landline. Bounce off communication satellites. Some loss of quality after encrypting and wiping ambient noise, but the CIA's always had some of the cleanest audio to begin with. And," Whistler said, a sad twist in his lips, "That was Crease. Your voices are like faces to me. I can't mistake him. Or, I shouldn't. It's like mistaking a doll for a human face... Carl, open that up. Keep the screws and bolts in order."

They were starting to pick it out, now. The perfect tone to go with the paragraphs. The same rhythm, the same pauses for breath. But the vocabulary had been just wrong enough.

"It's like typos in those Nigerian e-mail scams," commented Carl.

"This sure feels like a scam," said Martin.

Mother emerged with a toolbox to check the convertible. "Who's got the processors and the wherewithal to track cell phone users _and_ simulate their voices?"

Martin slid a circuit board under the magnifier, and entered its tracking numbers. "We're gonna find out."

`> `

Trying to contact Crease again was out of the question. Even if the mysterious Dupre Dynamics wasn't based in Las Vegas, there were enough hackers and black hats in the area to keep their options open. 

They drove through the night. It almost felt like old times: another late-nighter, another system to break down. The same, except for the tension of not knowing for certain about Crease's place, or whether digging deeper would help or hurt him. Whoever these people where, they were stealing people's voices. Who knew what else they could do. 

In the small hours of the morning, they ended up with two lists: one from the manufacturers of the hardware, the other from tell-tales in the software. 

"They're all legit," Carl said.

"As far as we can tell," said Whistler.

Martin paced the narrow aisle. "A bogus company, or group, buying from legit suppliers. Using code from corporate programmers." Could they have gotten past all the security checks of all those companies? Or were they legit in the first place? "Is that all we've got?"

Mother had stopped at an overlook and was hand-feeding the dog. "Not much we can do with the information. They can hack our communications. We haven't found the leak yet."

"You know any of these guys, Bish?" said Whistler. The list was literally at his fingertips, rolling on a loop.

Martin chewed on the inside of his lip, considering the idea. "Yeah, everybody in the Valley knows everybody else. It's a goddamn fishbowl. But some of these guys... they're rich enough to cloak. Completely off the grid." Nonetheless, he flagged all the ones he was familiar with.

"Even if we find a number to call, how do we know they're really who they say they are?" said Mother plaintively.

Whistler tsk'd. "Carl, line 24. Don't you have an aunt who works over there?"

Carl bent down, read the line, and paled.

Mother and Martin both shot sidewise glances at Carl.

Carl was shuddering. "By marriage. No." He backed up, nearly tripping over the dog, who didn't move. He threw his hands up. "No, no, I am not calling her. Why can't you call the corporate headquarters?"

Whistler leaned back, hooking a leg on a side-table. "Trust me. The number we need's not gonna be in your little black book."

Martin caught on. "Somebody who's already got a secure line. One that can't be hacked."

Whistler's grin was sharp and amused. "Call her up, Carl."

"No way. Aunt Bambi? She's scary."

Mother blinked. "Bambi?"

"I'm not calling her. _You_ call her."

Ten minutes later, the speaker-phone had been re-assembled. Soon after that, Carl was talking to his dear old Aunt Bambi while the other guys tried not to snicker too loudly. "I take it this is highly urgent, Carl? The ones at three in the morning are often that. What have you done this time?"

"I-I swear I haven't done anything! Auntie Bambi."

Whistler shook Martin's jacket and mouthed 'Auntie Bambi'. Mother was clutching his Burning Man statue and shaking with laughter.

Carl pointed at all of them with a half-hearted glare. "I'd just really like to speak with your boss. On a secure line." There was an icy silence. "Please, Auntie Bambi?"

Martin bit his lip hard as Whistler lost it on his shoulder. 

"Fortunately for you, young man," she said sternly, "My employer is likely awake at this hour. To what shall I say this refers?" 

Whistler whispered to Carl. "Tiger49, and his friends, would like to speak with HotRodder," Carl relayed. "Right away. If he doesn't m--"

The answer was curt. "Stay where you are, and he'll call you back."

The phone clicked. The dog sat up as everyone but Carl cracked up.

"Oh, haha," groused Carl. "Bambi Arbogast can make Crease wet his pants."

"I packed an extra pair if you need them," Martin said, keeping a straight face for about two seconds.

The phone rang. 

Martin took it. On a hunch, he scooped up the dog and set him on his lap. "Hello, Mr. Stark." _I hope you're sober._ "This is Martin Bishop. We met a few years ago at the youth center fundraiser."

The voice came through so loud and clear that Martin nearly dropped the phone. "Doesn't ring a bell, sorry about that. Bishop, is it?"

Martin racked his brain. "You tried to steal my date. Green silk..."

Tony Stark's bored mumble picked up some life. "Ohhh, right, now I remember. The one with the--" A somewhat obscene sound finished the sentence.

That was definitely him.

"Er, yes," said Martin. "I was looking into one of your projects. The new cellular network encryptions for the traffic-nav service. The ones embedded with voice recognition algorithms."

"Is that what they're doing with it, really?" Stark sounded almost surprised. Martin tried not to groan aloud. "Little toy I cooked up," continued Stark, "Something to spruce up the house. Wasn't doing anything else with it, so I whipped up a prototype and sent it out the door. So the little sales gremlins found a buyer. Huh." There was a ping of something metallic. Whistler tilted his head.

"Yes, about that--"

"Bishop," said Stark. His voice hardened. "Ah, this isn't the sort of thing you want in your sandbox."

"We understand that."

"These are the guys with the big guns? Makes big booms? You know."

Mother was quietly freaking out about the military application, but Martin couldn't worry about that now. Stark was close to hanging up on them.

Martin's tone was firm. "We don't need any of those details, Mr. Stark. We were just wondering if you'd heard it. Lately."

There was a short, sharp silence. Then Stark began to mutter to himself; a little bit into it, Whistler sat up.

"Tiger49," said Stark at last. "...Whistler. What was your high score, the last one?"

Whistler answered without hesitation. "Eighty-nine million, four hundred seventy-three thousand, nine hundred and six."

"Yeah, uhm-huh. Sorry I brought down the server with your player record."

A smirk tugged at Whistler's cheek. "Eh," he said amiably.

"And the other one with the backup." There was the sound of rapid one-handed typing. "Give me just a-- hey, I was not done with that-- give it here. Thank you." 

Carl whispered to Mother, "He talks like a script-kiddie."

Mother snorted. "Shut up. You _are_ a script-kiddie."

"Aha!" said Stark. "Fantastic. Well, whomever is tossing around the old voicebox is not one of our clients. Not that it answers your question, since the right hand doesn't know whose pants the left hand's down, and no one's really... telling." Now Stark sounded drunk. There was a loud clanking in the background, which Stark breezily ignored. "Say, Bishop, did you know the CIA called your location, such as it were, twenty-three times? They left a lot of voice mails."

The guys all held their breaths. _Crease_.

Martin hesitated. He checked the dog, who was sensibly dozing next to the phone. There was nothing else but to go for it. "Mr. Stark, we were wondering if you would be interested in sponsoring an audit."

`> `

"Bishop." Hesitant fingers ghosted over his hair, across his face, and settled on his shoulder. "Hey, Bishop. Wake up."

Wading through the cobwebs of sleep, Martin felt around for Whistler's hand. Still honed smooth. He cracked an eyelid, inhaling the scent of dust and solder. "Yeah," he said.

Whistler nimbly wove their hands together, and squeezed. "Stark's bringing Crease on the line in fifteen."

"Already? What time is it?" The morning's activities started rushing back. Stark had also provided a brick-and-mortar address for Dupre Dynamics. Among the four of them, they'd managed to case out the place. The findings had been disappointing; it was locked up tight as a presidential bunker. Martin was hoping there wasn't a presidential order to go with it.

"Noon. We're outside a Wal-mart in the suburbs. You missed the Strip." Whistler paused. Their hands untangled, a sensation which Martin registered as unpleasant, and Whistler adjusted his cap. "Funniest thing. Mother apologized to me."

Martin sat up a little. He swallowed the weight on his throat he'd been ignoring. "Yeah?"

"He didn't want to get on your bad side, I guess." There was that perpetual smile.

"It was a rotten thing to do," Martin said. He cleared his throat. 

The smile widened. "Didn't know you cared."

Martin batted him away grumpily, but he was pretty sure Whistler knew he was smiling too. 

There were a few more things to do before Stark extended his military-grade communication network into their little nerve center. Showers, dog food, people food, checking the gun, checking the car. The last Stark had magnanimously agreed to fix up after its rough ride through the desert. Martin chalked it up to eccentricity and the car's classic pedigree rather than generosity. He was wary of Stark, but he was also familiar with Stark's brand of genius.

Still, Martin didn't release the breath he'd been holding till Crease's image appeared on the video-phone, a loaner from Stark. A humorless company man was looming outside the trailer for when they were done with it.

"How's it going, Don?"

Crease looked like he was sitting in an MIT office, trying not to detonate all over the servers. "I'm trying to keep your asses out of the fire. What's new!" 

Martin glanced at the others for cues. All go, so far. The dog looked more bothered by fleas. "Cut us a break," he said. "We thought you were up a creek."

"Keep listening to Mother, and you guys are going to be the ones short on paddles." Crease paused. "Is he all right?"

Martin waved Mother off before he could eat up their time. "He's fine. What's going on?"

"First of all, it's not us."

Mother couldn't resist that one. "You mean it's not Them!"

They could almost hear Crease gritting his teeth. "There's an ongoing investigation into these people, Martin. It could be one person acting independently. It could be a hundred."

"This isn't government. It's corporate."

Crease nodded. "Here's the catch. From what we can trace, these last few days have been a trial run."

"So why aren't they--?" Carl began.

"If they succeed," said Crease said in a low voice, "Every government in the world will be lining up to buy this technology. But if they're caught testing it... Homeland Security is offering a two million dollar bounty."

Mother practically wolf-whistled. 

"Two. Million." Martin was at a loss for words.

"Interpol is leaning on State," said Crease. As though that explained everything.

"Too bad it's not in Euros," said Whistler. Carl laughed weakly.

Martin ignored the peanut gallery. "What are they developing? Ostensibly, I mean."

"The perfect voice recognition. The ultimate in biometrics. Supposedly it can tell the difference between a real human voice and a synthetic one."

Whistler was at the edge of his seat. "The difference between the real and the artificial."

"And if they finish it..." Martin trailed off.

Crease shook his head. "No deal. No two million. The United States government will want to buy up the exclusive rights."

"Now that makes no sense!" Mother burst out. "Even by my standards. That's loony. They're criminals unless they succeed?"

Martin crossed his arms. "Or if they commit a crime in order to test it."

"Bing-o," Whistler sing-songed.

"Wait a minute," said Martin. "I've heard about these so-called deals before. If Homeland Security's involved... what are the chances these guys are going to mysteriously disappear as soon as they hand over their technology?" The applications for terrorist groups had to be giving Crease nightmares.

"I can't speak to that, Martin," said Crease slowly.

"Sure you can't," said Martin mildly. Wasn't Crease's fault, but at least they knew.

"That doesn't mean these guys haven't thought of that possibility," said Crease. "They're in a tight spot. All-or-nothing. Their final release has to be perfect, or they'll have pissed it all away."

Martin was starting to get the picture. "Law enforcement's not going after them because it's in nobody's best interest if they go to ground. Two million dollars is a bargain." He glanced at the guys. It was tempting to call up their two youngest members, but none of the outgoing calls would be secure, and this was the core of them, anyway. "Don? Can you guarantee the money?"

Crease actually smiled. "I wouldn't have made the call if it wasn't a legitimate offer."

Beside Martin, Whistler laughed.

`> `

"So what now, fellas? We've got Stark's backing and Crease's word." Mother said. He was heating tortillas on his stove. Whistler was chopping the vegetables, his ears turned to whomever was talking.

Martin was opening a beer and trying not to stare at Whistler's hands. "Carl. If you were these guys... what would you do?"

Carl stopped playing with the dog, and thought about it. "An auction would be ideal, but the feds aren't going along with that. They're just going to buy you out, or if you fail, trash all your work. So to get it to final release, you have to break the law."

Whistler stopped chopping. "No, they don't. They've already proven it: they fooled me. It's a simple Turing test."

"Well, actually more of an uncanny valley thing," said Mother. 

"Like that Emily animation on YouTube?" put in Carl.

"It wasn't that good," said Mother. "Trust me," he said to Whistler.

"All they did was rotoscope the animation on a real actress," said Martin. "The software was impressive. She looked real. But she didn't... feel real."

"It was the eyes," said Carl.

Whistler hummed. "The uncanny valley. I've read about that. So that's the feeling you get when something's trying to hard to look like a human?"

"Yeah," said Martin. "If it's obviously fake, you think it's cute. If it's getting closer to life-like, you start to notice all the things that make it..."

Carl was making the dog stand up on two legs. "Zombie-like."

"Zombies, yes!" said Mother. "It's supposedly connected to the revulsion of looking at dead bodies. Or, you know, sick people."

"Aha, like when I don't wear my shades, right?" said Whistler.

They were all caught off-guard by that. Martin took a quick pull of beer. "A little bit. You're not undead enough, Whistler."

Whistler grinned. "So, okay, Carl. You've got the audio version of a leap across the uncanny valley. What now?"

Carl's answer was automatic. "Why would you need to know where the original people are, in real-time?"

There was the steady sound of the blade against the chopping block, and the sizzle of cheese and tortillas. Then Martin stood up. "We've got ahold of it all wrong. _It's identity theft._ It was that, the whole time." He turned to Carl, handed him the beer bottle, and signed on to the internet. "Crooks always slip up because they get greedy. It wasn't enough to scam the U.S. government to keep out of their hair. They wanted more than what the government was going to pay."

"Not a bad idea," said Mother. "Cheapskates, now that the reality-television bubble's burst."

"And they had to get it fast," said Carl, "Because there's no way any government would allow them to walk out with that design in their heads. So much business is done via telephone..."

"Yeah, they don't allow the POTUS to carry a PDA," said Mother. He straightened. "Don't tell me. They're gonna do it anyway. They'll throw it out there as freeware. Let anybody impersonate anyone over the phone."

Martin found what he was looking for. He caught hold of Whistler, and guided him to his interface as the page loaded. "Gentlemen, the golden goose. The latest premium feature for favored Swiss bank account holders. Instant, untraceable cash transfers from anywhere in the world."

Whistler's fingers skimmed through the letters. "Voice recognition."

Carl looked over their shoulders. "Backed up by real human operators... but that wouldn't matter, would it?"

"If that was a sample last night, they wouldn't stand a chance," said Whistler, rocking on his heels.

`> `

"For the record," said Martin, shivering against the cold desert night, "I don't like this plan."

"I've used the tech," said Whistler. Mother was bustling around the oven. Carl was outside, testing their little 'gift'. 

Martin touched his knuckles to Whistler's face. This time he brushed against stubble. "I wasn't talking about the tech, Whistler."

"Hey, I've been around the block."

Somehow Martin didn't think he just meant traveling around with Mother. "What if they have weapons?"

Whistler felt around and grasped Martin's shoulder. It wasn't to steady himself. "I'm the only one who hasn't been on the cell phone long enough to get a broad voice sample."

Martin bit his lip. "No offense, but are they gonna buy a blind pizza delivery man?"

Patting his cap in place, Whistler smiled. "With this gadget, I can pass for limited vision. I know plenty of guys who did this for a living. And you'll be driving the car." His palm moved up Martin's neck, feeling the years there, then moving warmly over his cheek. "Relax, Bishop. It's the easiest sneak we've ever done. Ten steps in, ten steps out. Plus, you'll be my honorary seeing-eye dog."

They'd decided against any cameras. All Whistler had going for him were some fake earphones that could vary pressure around his ear, and some wrap-around sunglasses that had some kind of sonar to judge proximity. Carl called them the Geordi shades.

Martin sighed heavily, and checked his watch. They'd found Dupre Dynamics' favorite pizza place, hacked into their order logs, and determined the peak time for hacker's munchies. A little sleight-of-hand with the Department of Health and the phone company, and they had their edible infiltration.

Days of trying to find an opening, and it was going to come down to this.

"They'll just think I'm a clumsy old guy," Whistler muttered. Martin's hackles rose at that, until Whistler added, "They'll be underestimating me. I've been toying with this stuff for years, okay? Just sit tight and don't talk."

Martin touched the gun under his jacket. Whistler must've felt the motion, because he frowned. "Hey," Martin said quickly. "How come you've never had a guide dog?"

"Never could find one that'd get along with me," said Whistler. His grin flashed in the dark as he felt for the car roof and got in the passenger seat.

There was no audio check this time. They hadn't been using any phones at all, in fact. Carl had actually mailed a postcard to Mary, then had to mail another one because he didn't know the price of postage.

 _Easiest sneak in the world,_ Martin reminded himself. Two million dollars was a nice split. Still, they'd only done one other sneak with this little intel and that...

Had actually ended well, but that wasn't the point.

Mother checked their kits, and was especially protective of the pies. "Careful with that joystick," he said to Martin.

Martin did a double-take, but Mother was already messing with their delivery sign.

"Your thirty minutes is up, guys," said Carl. 

Blowing out a long breath, Martin started the car.

`> `

They swarmed him when he walked in, a regular feeding frenzy. Nothing came between a ravenous programmer and his sustenance. "Sorry, fellas," he mumbled, bumping into a few guys here and there, but otherwise keeping his balance.

"Hangover?" One of them asked, pointing at the shades.

"Yeah," said Whistler amiably.

Ten feet away, Martin tensed as one of the security guys frisked him. 

"Okay, bring it inside!" shouted a supervisor. "We got one!" 

Two miles away, Carl was making a call on his cell phone, and pretending to talk to Mary.

"Hey!" said the supervisor. Whistler froze. A few taps from his 'earphones' and he turned around and looked straight at the guy. "Be on time next time!" the guy snapped.

Whistler shrugged, opening his hands. "Free pizza. Enjoy."

He didn't even speed up to get to the door. The security guard felt sorry for him, and gave him a tip.

Martin was grinning like a loon as he reached out for Whistler's hand to help him inside.

"Ah, ah," Whistler said, silencing him.

On the way out, they passed four unmarked vans. Martin resisted the urge to wave.

They didn't start whooping till they hit the Strip, windows rolled down and driving the long way round while they waited for Crease's signal. "You been here lately?" Martin asked.

"You haven't been here for five years," said Whistler. "I should show you around." He was leering outright. The gaudy lights reflected on his shades.

Martin smiled back, then laughed so Whistler could hear it.

Miles behind them, the little plastic lid-holders sitting in trash-cans on every level of Dupre Dynamics began to transmit data. They scurried like ants when their own sound systems boomed with "FBI! Freeze!" All their cell phones were set to record, too. (Crease would later keep a recording of it for his own collection.)

Martin missed all the fun when they started to erase their own programming, and when the supervisor tried their cell phone scam on the real FBI agents waiting just outside. No matter. They caught up with the others later on that night, stealing power from the local Wal-mart and clinking beers; and arm-in-arm with good friends, Martin Bishop had never been more glad he'd gone to see a Winnebago about a man.

 


End file.
